


we live in the memories(of the season of light)

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Holiday Blues, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, bro jonny is just so sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 14:35:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17163782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The holidays have never been one of Jonny’s favorite times.





	we live in the memories(of the season of light)

**Author's Note:**

> psa if u or someone u know’s name is above just click away
> 
> hey yall gotta get this xmas fic out before xmas actually ends but ive actually had this written since last year so thats fun! im pretty proud of this bad boy ngl so i hope yall enjoy
> 
> title from season of light - jacob narverud (its a [super beautiful choral piece](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MkzlMq1yfDw) that actually inspired this fic so i highly highly recommend u go listen to it in order to get the Full Effect)

The holidays have never been one of Jonny’s favorite times. He supposes the first couple weeks of December are enjoyable, attending festivity after festivity with his teammates, catching a glimpse of that warm feeling of home again, filled with bright smiles and the smell of cinnamon. He still can lose himself in games and practices, shifting into his game day mindset and floating through the days as they pass by in a blur, keeping his head down as he works through the season.

 

The final days before Christmas break are a slow, grinding process. His teammates leave for their hometowns or warm, sunny beaches, spending time with their families. Jonny aches to be at home again. He doesn’t let himself get caught up in it too much, but when sitting his cold, empty house alone, it’s hard to force his mind out of the rut it climbs into.

 

Every December he remembers the days of his youth, no cares in the world. Belly laughs and the sweet smell of cookies in the oven and his mother’s soft voice filling his ears as she reads him a story in French, her arms wrapped securely around him. In that moment, nothing can touch him. No one can hurt him as long as his mom stays tucked under the soft quilt with him and his brother and his dad is in the living room, giving their dog gentle scratches behind the ears after she had guilted him into letting her on the couch. As long as the logs still crackle in the fireplace and the tinny voice from the television drifts through the speakers, nothing can touch him.

 

And now, as he sits in his barely-touched apartment, looking more like a magazine ad than a home, Jonny can feel his chest start to ache. Even in college, when he and his team ordered take-out and put on  _ A Christmas Story _ , he felt more at home during the holidays than he ever has since coming to Chicago. The first year, he went home to Winnipeg for Christmas. He couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing his family, and it was worth the tight planning when his mother called his name in the airport, and he was almost bulldozed over by the entire immediate Toews clan.

 

He tries to light his fireplace, hoping desperately that it will bring back the warmth and the love from his childhood, settling on the couch as only the orange glow from the flames lights the room. He considers turning on the TV, but doesn’t make a move for the remote.

 

His sofa feels stiff and unused, the coffee table without character, no cracks or scuffs or stains. The art on his walls is generic and everything feels suffocatingly wrong.

 

Jonny inhales sharply and raises a hand to his face, shaky and slowly. It does nothing to help the tears he can feel trickling down his cheeks, a pressure in his temples building as each second ticks by.

 

He feels like a shell, some skin and bones posed carefully on scratchy IKEA cushions, knowing fully well that this is his fault.

 

The guilt expands in him, slowly and then all at once, that he didn’t go home. He doesn’t know the last time he had a proper conversation with his mother, who probably set an extra place at the table just in case. Just in case her other son decided to appear, breaking the distance in one flight. She’ll be disappointed, just like she is every year.

 

He doesn’t know who of his teammates stayed behind in Chicago for the break, but he doesn’t want to bother any of them with his holiday blues. Because here Jonny is, crying because he yearns for his mother and the days of his youth.

 

He thinks of calling his family, just to hear their voices, but he’d rather not bring them all down. Rather be absent then have them worry. The holidays have always been important in his family. He would never take that away from them.

 

His tears are soaking through the material of his sweatpants now, gathering at the collar of his shirt as he wipes at his eyes with the fabric.

 

He doesn’t cry often, but when he does, he cries hard. They aren’t loud or dramatic sobs and he doesn’t throw himself onto the nearest surface able to support his weight. Instead, there are just silent, ugly tears that slip down his cheeks unknown, until his entire body is tense and shaking, and there’s a pounding in his head so intense he can barely keep his eyes open. His heart always aches the most.

 

Consumed by his thoughts, Jonny misses the texts that cause his phone to vibrate against the marble of his kitchen counter. He misses the metallic rattle of his buzzer. He misses the quiet click of his door opening. He misses everything until the moments flood him all at once, gentle hands on his wrists, centering him instantly. His hand is being pulled away from his eyes and he doesn’t know if he can look, just yet, at the face of whatever pity is currently staring him down.

 

“I tried texting you, but you didn’t pick up.” And of course, of course it’s Patrick. It’s always Patrick. Before Jonny realizes it, he’s being pulled snug against the soft material of the sweater his friend is wearing, face buried into what he guesses is his shoulder. He’s missing a coat, because it’s probably hung up on the second hook by the door, right next to Jonny’s. Just like it always is.

 

Jonny can smell the cologne dabbed at the hinge of Patrick’s jaw, added hastily before leaving the house, and it’s nice, familiar. And in a moment like this, when he feels lost in his own place, his own body, he clings to that familiarity.

 

And just then, as Patrick instinctively wraps his arms around him, Jonny feels an overwhelming sense of belonging. Of warmth. Of  _ home _ . His body tenses, once again, and that’s how he knows that he’s crying again. He can’t reign it in, and he’s probably making a mess all over Patrick’s shoulder, but he can’t focus on that. All he can think about is  _ Patrick _ and  _ love _ and,  _ holy shit, this is home _ . The next words spoken feel much too loud in the silence of the room, despite the tenderness and softness they’re delivered in, as Patrick mumbles, “oh, Jonny” into his hair, his arms secure around him and for the first time, Jonny feels completely safe. In his best friend’s arms, away from the world, as snow falls rapidly outside and the biting wind licks at the building, the fireplace humming and lights dimmed, he feels untouchable.

 

Jonny feels a gentle hand on the side of his face, a rough, callused palm against equally rough, scratchy stubble. He lets himself be guided so that he’s leaning his forehead against Patrick’s, and up close, he listens to the slow patterns of their breathing, traces the curve of Patrick’s lips with his eyes, desperate to touch. Not even in a sexual way, just to feel, something tactile, to know that this moment is real, that he isn’t still alone and dreaming and so, so cold.

 

A coarse thumb swipes over Jonny’s cheek, tears drying and tacky as they’re wiped off of the skin, in a gentle movement that sends a wave of comfort crashing over his head. After what feels like an eternity, in a synchronized moment of chins tilting and necks craning, their lips meet in a blissful second, before they’re falling into each other, hands running over clothing and through hair frantically, desperately trying to get closer. Patrick is the one to slow them, the one to set a pace, the one to control them. Jonny feels out of his depth, so used to being the one guiding them along the past. He isn’t sure how well he’d be able to take on that responsibility, only having just escaped the woods in which he was lost.

 

They pull away after Jonny has long lost track of time, seconds blurring by into minutes, and so on. Patrick frowns, looking over him with a worried, calculating stare. Blue eyes wash over him in a means of taking in the damage done, to soothe the struggles Jonny is bearing. 

 

“I’ll be okay,” Jonny tells him, without Patrick even having to ask. He lets his hands rest on the other’s knees and breathes out slow and steady. “Please, stay, and I’ll be okay.” Patrick nods, because of course he will. He always stays.


End file.
